


History

by colonel_bastard



Series: A Symphony of Scars [6]
Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Blood, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Community: disney_kink, First Meetings, Fist Fights, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And after all, it’s only flesh, blood, and bone. All these things can heal in time.</i>
</p>
<p>Every rivalry has a beginning, and for every fight, someone has to throw the first punch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History

**Author's Note:**

> Prompter at [disney_kink](disney-kink.livejournal.com) wanted something based on Ratigan's canon first name: Padraic. It was a perfect opportunity to go back and take a look at their first meeting. In the process I had to choose a surname for Basil, so I picked something that was an homage to his predecessor, Holmes. 
> 
> These stories were originally posted to LJ in the order in which they were written, but here on AO3 I've decided to tweak that a bit for a better narrative flow. As I'm sure you've already guessed, this installment is meant to take place at the very beginning, before all the others. Ah, to be young and naive again!

-

-

-

Snow is just beginning to fall when Basil leaves the station house, and it lends a certain muffled quality to the long walk home. The air is crowded with huge white flakes that swallow up the noises of the street, so that the calls of nearby vendors sound as if they come from a great distance, like ships passing each other in a dense fog. His uniform will be soaked through by the time he reaches Baker Street, and he can only hope that Mrs. Judson has a fire going— if he hangs his jacket on the mantel, it should be dry before he has to report for duty in the morning. 

In the meantime, he rummages in his pocket and finds his last cigarette, wedged in with a match for just this occasion. Although his landlady discourages smoking at home (a rule he is slowly but surely corroding), he has discovered that the distance from the station house is the same length of time as one cigarette, if he paces himself. He pulls in his first drag of the night and releases it in a satisfied cloud that trails over his shoulder like the smoke of a train. 

“Smoking is an ugly habit,” says a nearby voice, so near that it startles him. 

Basil turns sharply and sees that the words were spoken by a rat, and before he can stop himself he quips, “Hypocritical words when spoken by an ugly creature.” 

He regrets it immediately, first because it’s prudish and old-fashioned, and second because it’s simply not true. The rat is actually quite handsome, and he accepts the insult with a condescending smile and a shrug of his massive shoulders. Rats are traditionally considered a lower class, and Basil’s idle words are surely not the worst he’s been greeted with. Still, Basil feels like a fool, and rather than walk on as planned, he stops to make a proper apology. 

“Terribly sorry, old boy,” he says. “A slip of the tongue. It’s been a rather long day, you know.” 

“Quite all right, constable,” the rat gives a civil nod. “We all make assumptions.” 

“An unfortunate truth, I’m afraid,” Basil agrees, then fishes in his empty pocket for appearance’s sake. “I would offer a smoke, but you’ve already made your opinion on that quite clear.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” smiles the rat. “Besides, I’ve made my own assumptions about you, and I don’t think you would feel so generous if you knew them.” 

“Now I’m curious.” 

“Well,” the rat feigns hesitation. “I did notice that you are rather short for a policeman.” 

Basil’s ears flick back in surprise and self-consciousness, and he draws himself to his full height before answering, “The cusp of regulation is regulation nonetheless.” 

“I suppose it’s the helmet, then,” the rat chuckles. “It makes you look a bit smaller than perhaps you are. Its unusual height suggests a certain degree of— overcompensation.” 

“I must agree with you,” Basil admits with a chuckle. “They expect us to be proud of our uniforms, and then present us with headgear that I sometimes feel does more harm than good.”

“A bobby with a sense of humor!” At this, the rat offers a genuine grin. “You’re a welcome exception to the rule, Constable...?”

At his raised eyebrows, Basil offers his surname. “It’s Hume. Constable Hume.”

“A pleasure, my dear Hume.” The rat offers his hand and his own name in return. “Padraic Ratigan, at your service.”

As Basil shakes his hand, he teases, “A rat _and_ Irish? If you ever manage to make an honest living, it will be a miracle.”

“Assumptions again, Hume,” Ratigan scolds. “They’re not very becoming on you.” 

“Neither is this helmet,” Basil shrugs. “I suppose I’m not in fine form tonight.” 

They laugh together, and although Ratigan has expressed a dislike for the habit, the chilly weather still gives him the appearance of exhaling smoke, his hot breath steaming when it hits the icy air. There’s something about him that sets Basil at ease. Normally he’s not a very social type, keeping to himself around the station house, volunteering for solitary foot patrol. As he comes of age, he is also coming into an awareness that his own mental capacities far exceed those of his peers. Even in mundane conversation, he finds himself traveling at great speeds, and this coupled with his tendency to speak his mind directly have led to more than a few ugly scenes. This rat— a _rat_ , of all things— not only keeps pace but counters Basil’s unintentional callousness with a certain callousness of his own. They’re well-matched and Basil likes him already. 

“Your name is Irish,” Basil observes. “But you’ve hardly any trace of an accent.”

“My mother was from Dublin.” Ratigan speaks with a tone of fond remembrance. “She came to London when she married my father.” 

“Ah,” Basil mutters, who remembers his own mother with something more akin to fear than fondness. “You’ve nearly outgrown your brogue, then.”

“Before long, none shall know me for Irish at all.” 

“It’s a shame you can’t outgrow your other handicap.”

“I consider it an advantage,” Ratigan says, with all seriousness. “A quick-witted rat is a thing to be respected.”

With something of a guilty start, Basil realizes that he has never really known any rat at all. They truly do tend to keep to the sewers, and the few encounters he’s had with them have been the result of his duties as an officer of the law. Because of their size and strength, most rats can find work as the muscle for criminal organizations, and on several occasions Basil has found himself facing an opponent more than twice his size.

Just as Basil has this uncomfortable thought, Ratigan smirks, “Besides, even an average rat could best a little constable on the cusp of regulation.” 

And it’s true, Basil is on the small side. He’s barely regulation height for the police force, and on top of that he’s as thin as a rake. His father long ago gave up on his second son having any kind of physical worth, and his mother would just as soon have been rid of the physical all together. 

She was quite mad. Basil remembers her with a shiver, the way she would grab him by the head, her thumbs creeping towards his eye sockets as though she were about to blind him. _Your mind, Basil!_ she would insist desperately. _The only thing of value is your mind! Pray that you never lose it!_ It was she who brought him puzzles, she who trained him to be able to look at a thing and immediately know everything about it. A broken leg once left him bedridden for months, and when his mother flooded his captive bedside with books and riddles, Basil became convinced she had tampered with the treacherous ladder that had snapped underfoot when he went up to clean out the gutters at her bidding. _Forget your body,_ she hissed at him once. _It’s only holding you back._

And after all, it’s only flesh, blood, and bone. All these things can heal in time. 

“All right, then,” Basil says to the rat. “I accept your challenge.”

Ratigan’s smug chuckle fades into a look of genuine intrigue, and he says, “I daresay another of my assumptions has been proven wrong.” 

Basil takes one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it away into the gutter. Enough snow has collected that it lands with a hiss, and a thin column of steam snakes up from its final resting place. Ratigan slips out of his jacket and hails a passing youngster. 

“Hold this for me,” he says, folding the jacket over the boy’s arm. “And you’ll get to see a fight.” 

The child’s eyes go wide with delight, and as he looks at Basil they go even wider. 

“Are you going to fight that bobby?” he practically shrieks. 

“I’m going to teach that bobby a thing or two,” Ratigan winks at Basil, who finds himself grinning in return. 

“Here, boy,” he says, shrugging out of his uniform jacket. “Hold this as well.” 

He also removes his helmet and, after a moment’s consideration, perches it on the excited child’s head. Their impromptu coat rack gives a sudden, shrill whistle, and within moments a small crowd of urchins has clustered around, and moments after that they’ve all been informed that a rat is going to trounce a bobby who’s asking for it, and they turn as one unit with huge, eager eyes. 

“Well, then,” Ratigan laughs, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s not keep our public waiting.”

“Had I known it was going to be an exhibition match,” Basil chuckles as he undoes the top button of his dress shirt. “I’d have charged for admission.”

They face each other across the pool of light cast by the nearest streetlamp. The urchins clamor _fight, fight,_ and like dancers responding to the striking up of a waltz, the two combatants begin to circle the perimeter of their impromptu ring. 

“Shall we be using the Queensberry rules, then?” Basil checks. 

“My dear little constable,” Ratigan says coolly. “We shall be using no rules at all.”

And he charges, kicking up snow and sleet as he closes the distance between them in a ferocious right hook that spins Basil almost completely in a circle. Their audience screams in delight. Basil regains his footing quickly, dodges the left hook that follows it, and delivers two quick uppercuts to the rat’s abdomen. He feels instantly that he is striking uselessly at a wall of sheer muscle, and he realizes that Ratigan is quite stronger than he even began to give him credit for. 

Within several punches, instinct has taken over almost entirely, and Basil surrenders to the primal thrill of dodging and striking, of hitting and being hit. It really is something like a dance, as they come together and move apart, circling, weaving, their bodies pressing together in a furious clinch before spinning away to circle again. Ratigan may have size and strength on his side, but Basil still has speed, and as the fight wears on and the cheering around him fades to white noise, he finds that he is able to focus his flighty, frantic mind entirely on his opponent. The world blurs away and only Ratigan remains. The questions and observations that hound his every waking moment are suddenly drowned out by the sound of flesh striking flesh, and when he tastes blood in his mouth, he smiles. 

In a matter of minutes they have found each other, felt each other out so thoroughly that landed blows become increasingly scarce. Basil realizes with dismay that the high can’t last forever, that his mind is already catching up and spinning off with a life of its own. Even in violence, Basil’s mind functions at a level beyond his consent or control. He is rapidly learning how to solve Ratigan, just as quickly as he learned how to solve transposition ciphers. With enough time and energy, one can learn how to solve just about anything, and it’s getting harder and harder for Ratigan to hit him. _There_ — the rat tilts his head fractionally towards his rear shoulder, and Basil easily sidesteps the left cross that is thrown a moment later. _There_ — a subtle glance to the right signals a change in his direction, and Basil not only maintains the distance but manages to nail his chin with a sharp jab that drives straight through his line of defense. 

Confidence swells in him like a rising tide, and he can hear himself laughing, his breath bursting on the air in swirling clouds. Steam comes in quick blasts from Ratigan’s flaring nostrils, and the crowd around them chants for blood. 

_There_ — Ratigan steps back with his right foot, his left fist pulling down low for an uppercut aimed directly up under Basil’s jaw. Basil instantly counters to the side, and before he has time to realize his error, he sees the rat’s other fist swinging around in a haymaker that completely blindsides him. He loses his balance entirely and sprawls onto his back in the dirty snow. 

Ratigan is on him immediately, straddling him and pinning him by sitting on his belly. There’s a huge, savage grin on his face, and he throws back his head and roars with laughter. 

“Thought you had me figured there, eh, Hume?” he cackles. “I could see it in your eyes. You were starting to feel quite proud of yourself, weren’t you, precious?”

Flustered and embarrassed, Basil squirms angrily and seethes, “A clever trick, my friend, but only good for one fight. Next time I shall be prepared.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Ratigan clucks his tongue. “There shan’t be a next time, I’m afraid.”

At that moment, a piercing whistle slices through the snowy air. Basil, still pinned, twists his head enough to see another police officer waiting at the mouth of the nearest alley. 

“All clear, Professor!” the newcomer calls. 

The rat nods curtly and says, “Thank you, Joseph. Now please be so kind as to return what you’ve borrowed.”

As the constable draws closer, Basil realizes with dawning horror that he’s not a constable at all— he’s just a thug in a uniform, a uniform that is distinctly too small for him— a uniform that undoubtedly has the name _Hume_ printed neatly on the innermost tag. A quick glance at the rapidly-dispersing crowd of urchins confirms that the boy who held the jackets is long gone. His eyes wide with disbelief, Basil looks up at the rat and is outraged when he is greeted with an apologetic smile. 

“Terribly sorry, old boy,” Ratigan sighs. “But business is business, you know.”

He slips quick and clever hands around Basil’s head, and before Basil can even voice his protest, Ratigan pulls up hard and then drives his captive’s skull back into the pavement. Stars explode in Basil’s vision, stars and snowflakes, before his eyes roll back and darkness claims him.

He’s woken by the rough shaking of Sergeant Walsh, who bellows in his ear— _Hume! Confound it all, Hume, wake up!_ — until Basil opens his eyes and brings them into blurry focus on his commanding officer. 

“Sir,” he acknowledges, sitting up too quickly, and as he reels he reaches behind him and feels the sticky patch of blood where his scalp ripped open on the cobblestones. 

His jacket is folded neatly beside him, his helmet perched in the center of it like a crown presented on a velvet pillow. 

They tell him the story back at the station house— how a nearby jeweler’s was closing down for the night when a uniformed police officer rapped on the front door. How the proprietor thought nothing of letting him in, and how they found that same proprietor with a pair of stab wounds in his belly. How the shop was ransacked and the cases stripped bare, and how the wounded shopkeep could give no description of his attacker except that he bore the rank of constable. 

“You played your part perfectly, Hume,” the sergeant glares. “And now we all look like a pack of fools.”

“Tell me his name,” Basil demands, trembling with anger. “Who was behind this?”

“His gang calls him the Professor. In the past three weeks, he’s orchestrated four separate heists.” Walsh massages his temples. “I’ve got a feeling we’ve only just begun to see what he’s capable of.”

“The Professor...” the constable mutters, realization blooming in his eyes. 

“That’s right,” the sergeant continues. “The Professor. But his real name is—”

And for the first time in his life, Basil growls as he says the name, “ _Ratigan._ ”

\- - -

Years later— _a lifetime later_ — at the scene of yet another crime, Basil throws the first punch in what quickly escalates into a full-on brawl. Ratigan is just buying time for his thugs to escape with their stolen goods, and he’s more than capable of holding the lone detective at bay. They pivot and circle around each other like feral cats, each waiting for the other to show a weakness, each searching for the perfect opening to strike. 

Again and again they clash, no rules, no regulations— Ratigan spits blood and one of Basil’s eyes is already starting to swell shut. It’s a fierce and fiery exchange of jabs and crosses, and in all the years of their rivalry, Ratigan has never realized that the detective of Baker Street was quite so skilled in hand-to-hand combat. He can see echoes of the Queensberry rules, as though he adhered to them once a long time ago and has since fallen into a more anarchic fighting style. 

Anarchic is Ratigan’s specialty. He has a particular move that he likes to employ, a feint that every opponent falls for, a trick that has ended more fights than he can remember. He steps back and draws down his left fist, signaling that he is about to drive through an uppercut. It always, always triggers a jump to the right, and he’s so sure of it that he’s already bringing his right fist around in a ferocious haymaker before he realizes that Basil has dropped into a crouch. The punch flies wild, and as the momentum drags Ratigan into a half-turn, the detective springs up onto his back and latches an arm around his throat, grabbing his own wrist to complete the chokehold.

“You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?” Basil pants in his ear. “ _Padraic?_ ”

Ratigan goes very still and his eyes go wide. Yes, it was a lifetime ago, an encounter that to him meant nothing and to the other meant everything. The connection finally snaps into place, and he realizes why he has spent so many years wondering where he had seen Basil before. If he were a superstitious creature he may have wondered if they had somehow met in a past life, but now it becomes clear. An officer who gave his name only as Hume, and yet Ratigan can see him now as he was then, peering up from under his helmet, a cigarette hanging from his lip and his eyes looking on him for the first and last time with genuine friendliness. 

“So, Fate has brought us together again at last,” Ratigan rasps, his throat constricted by Basil’s grip. “It’s a pity you left the force. You looked so very dashing in that uniform, my dear little constable.”

With the next breath he has thrown Basil to the pavement, and the detective rolls on his shoulder and back to his feet in an instant. Ratigan finds himself thinking of a song he hasn’t heard in years, an Irish jig, and it brings a sharp smile to his face, his teeth stained with blood. Basil charges and Ratigan meets him in the middle, and when their bodies collide, for a moment it really is something like a dance. 

 

 

 

__________end.


End file.
